The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [118]
“That’s what I’m going to do for my next party,” Jordan said, pointing at the sushi-making spread as she chomped down on a roll.
“Yeah, what a good idea,” I told Mai.
She shrugged modestly. “It’s not a lot of very special ingredients, just basic.”
Aaron came by and gave Mai a little squeeze.
“So, are we ready for tomorrow?” he asked me. “I can’t wait to try out this spicy Mexican legend.”
“Yeah ... it should be interesting,” I said.
Earlier that day, I’d managed to make a trip to Chinatown to pick up the honeycomb beef tripe. It was next door to the seafood market where I’d picked up the lobsters, and once again I found myself toting a very strange object with me on the subway ride back to Brooklyn. This time, even though nothing was live and kicking, it felt about ten times weirder. Never had I seen honeycomb tripe in its raw, unprepared state before. I knew I’d be able to point it out the moment I saw it at a butcher shop. That flabby, honeycomblike texture was impossible to miss. So when I strolled to the end of the case of meats on display at the shop, I immediately spotted my prey. Whitish in color, somewhat translucent in parts, the floppy, baggy, deeply scored intestinal sacks were heaped one on top of another, like deflated monster-truck tires. On the meat shelf, the honeycomb pattern was a tight-knit lattice. But once the butcher lifted one up to take it out of the case, the rubbery flesh stretched out to reveal a gaping three-dimensional surface and a balloonlike shape with a wide O-shaped opening at one end. The intestines needed to be sold whole; unlike the neat cuts of flank steak or the individual trotters in the meat case, there was no trimming them down to certain weights. One had to eyeball these pieces for size and choose accordingly. I needed just one pound of tripe for the recipe Mike gave me, but looking at the bloated, watery texture of the offal, I had no idea what kind of weight it might carry. I got the butcher’s attention and ordered what looked to be the smallest of the tripe pieces.
He had given me a curious grin when I pointed to the tripe. He’d pointed to it with a smile as if to ask, “You really want this?” He seemed amused all the while as he wrapped and weighed the product. The meter read that it weighed approximately 1.6 pounds. At $1.69 per pound, this was an overhaul I could afford. Plus, I wanted to make plenty of menudo for my brunch guests, enough for seconds.
As I told the story of purchasing the tripe to Aaron, trying to describe the actual, physical appearance of the stuff, an uneasy feeling crept into my stomach.
“So, wait, tripe is actually a cow’s stomach? Did I hear that right?” Aaron said.
“Yeah. There’s lots of different stomachs in a cow—seven to be exact. So that’s just one of the kinds, with the honeycomb texture,” I said.
“Huh,” he said. “For some reason, I just thought tripe was a type of fish.”
“What?” I said.
“Oh, no,” said Jordan.
“No, I mean—I’ll eat it,” Aaron quickly responded. “I don’t know what made me think that, though. Weird.”
“Maybe you were thinking of ... trout?” Jordan offered.
“I have no idea.” Aaron shook his head. “Okay, so, yeah, hooray for tripe! Let’s all get wasted and eat it tomorrow.” We shared a toast.
“Did you cook it yet?” Mai asked.
“Partially,” I told her. I had cut the tripe into one- to two-inch squares and brought them to a boil with the onion and chili powder, following the recipe. I was planning to cook it the hour or so more it needed the next day, then would add the hominy, so that it would be piping hot and ready